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SAMUEL OSBORNE 

JANITOR 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



SAMUEL OSBORNE, JANITOR 



SAMUEL OSBORNE 

JANITOR 



BY 

Frederick Morgan Padelford 



Boston 
LbRoy Phillips, Publisher 



Copyright, 1913 
By Frederick M. Padelford 





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^\it Mntt fill f r»M 

SAMUEL USHER 
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 



©CI.A346981 



TO THE CLASS OF '96. COLBY COLLEGE. WHO. 

WITH SO MANY OTHERS. ENJOYED 

THE FRIENDSHH* OF SAM, 

THIS LITTLE SKETCH 

IS DEDICATED 



SAMUEL OSBORNE 

JANITOR 

A GROUP of men, young, middle- 
-^^*' aged, and elderly, crowding 
around a little man on the platform of 
the Maine Central Station at Water- 
ville. Hearty handshakes; hearty 
claps on the broad shoulders which 
bear up manfully under the assault; 
hearty laughter from the besiegers, 
merry falsetto chuckles and ripples 
from the besieged — such was my first 
glimpse of Samuel Osborne, Janitor. 
" Samuel Osborne, Janitor," when the 
dignity of the college was at stake, — 
as when an itinerant organ grinder from 
sunny Italy, bribed by a shower of un- 
dergraduate pennies, with organ and 
monkey invaded the quiet precincts of 

[1] 



the campus during recitation hours, — 
otherwise '' Sam." 

It was the Commencement season 
of 1891 to which I have alluded, and 
the alumni were just getting back. 
I had gone up to Colby to spend the 
week with my brother and to get a 
little foretaste of college life before 
matriculating. When the crowd had 
somewhat dispersed, I was taken up 
and introduced to Sam as a prospec- 
tive student. " So you's goin' to be 
one of my boys ! Well, Mr. Dehfohd, 
you jes' behave yohself as well as 
youeh brudah — dat's all I asks. I'se 
got a very fine lot of young genelmen 
heah, but I guess you'll pass; he! he! 
Sorry I can't talk longah, but I'se 
got a lot o' my old boys to look aftah 
dis aftahnoon," and he hurried away 
to the baggage room, his energetic 
little legs struggling vainly to keep 
up with his more energetic little head. 

Sam was as black as his own polished 
boots, as why should he not have 
been, for never a drop of alien mixture 

[2] 



had tainted the pure negro blood of his 
forefathers. His bright eyes, Hke the 
eyes of Chaucer's frere, 

twinkled in his head aright 
As doon the sterres in the frosty night, 

and his beard was worn forked, after 
the manner of Chaucer's own. He was 
dressed in a dark blue uniform, and on 
his coat was an impressive nickel badge, 
which shone as brightly as his own 
ebon skin, and which bore upon it 
the proud inscription, " Janitor of 
Colby College." 

From that first meeting Sam was my 
personal and peculiar friend, as per- 
sonally and peculiarly mine as if he 
were not the very special friend of 
every student who had attended the 
college for a generation. The passing 
years have given many goodly friends, 
friends of boyhood, friends of college 
days and young manhood, friends of 
riper years, but in the temple of friend- 
ship the memory of Samuel Osborne 
has it own particular shrine. To 

[3] 



think of Sam to-day, when fifteen years 
have done their best to obliterate, with 
their multifarious and distracting inter- 
ests, the memories and friendships of 
college days, is to quaff deeply and long 
the pure wine of hope and optimism, is 
to brace one's self afresh for the strug- 
gle, with the conviction that life is 
worth while and worth the best we have 
to give it. I think you would enjoy 
hearing the story of this friend. 

The history of Sam's early years is 
full of interest, for it illustrates the 
vicissitudes in the life of a slave lad, 
and is not without its own romantic 
episodes. Sam was born in Lanesville, 
King and Queen County, Virginia, 
October 20, 1833, on the plantation of 
a Dr. William Welford. While he was 
still very young, his master moved to 
Fredericksburg, taking his retinue of 
slaves with him. It was here that Sam 
spent his boyhood and youth. His 
favorite playmate from his babyhood 
was a little girl two years his junior, 
named Maria Iveson, who had been 

14] 



swapped to the doctor for another slave 
child when only a babe in arms. As 
children, they played together around 
the cabins and among the flowers, and, 
being children of more than usual parts, 
were made much of by both master and 
mistress. Later, the comradeship of 
childhood ripened naturally into the 
love of youth. Sam found two other 
warm friends in Dr. Welford's sons, 
and with them enjoyed some of the 
sports of boyhood. When the boys 
were old enough to be sent to school, 
Sam was moved with the desire to learn 
to read and write, and in pursuance of 
this end bought an old spelling book, 
which was purchased with money saved 
from selling rags. Many a long even- 
ing, after the other slaves had gone to 
bed, Sam pored over the mysteries of 
this book, stretched out before the 
cabin fire. But it was slow work, and 
before he had made much progress his 
efforts to gain the rudiments of an edu- 
cation had to give way to work. 

Sam was now trained to be a cook, 

[51 



and that he gave himself to his work 
with intelligence and conscientiousness 
is testified to by the medal which he 
kept through life, and which he used 
proudly to display to us college boys. 
Several times he was hired out by his 
master to some boarding school, where 
he was brought into intimate touch 
with the students, and he thus early 
came to understand boys at school, 
and the lessons that he then learned 
stood him in good stead in his later 
work, for if there was anything, actual 
or potential, about boys that Sam did 
not know, we never were able to dis- 
cover it. 

It was during his life at Fredericks- 
burg that Sam felt most strongly the 
influence of the noble Christian char- 
acter of his young mistress. She or- 
ganized a Sunday school among the 
slave children, and under her tutelage 
Sam, while still in his teens, began the 
consistent Christian life which later 
years only served to deepen and expand. 
Mrs. Welford was Sam's ideal, and I 

16] 



never knew him to speak of her without 
reverently removing his hat. It was a 
Httle thing, perhaps, but it told a deal 
about Mrs. Welford — and a deal about 
Sam. It was specified in her will that 
none of the Osborne family, consisting 
of three brothers and a sister, should 
ever be sold, and that Sam should have 
money enough to secure a good educa- 
tion. Of course the war frustrated the 
kindly intent of this will. 

At the age of twenty, Sam moved 
with his master to Culpepper County. 
Here he married Maria, his childhood 
playmate. 

The war brought many changes into 
Sam's life. His mother went farther 
south to serve Mrs. Welford's married 
daughter, and the first separation of the 
family took place. Sam did not hear 
of her again until the year 1867, when 
he found her in Washington, shortly 
before her death. His master now 
moved to Danville, close to the North 
Carolina border. Here Sam was made 
overseer of the new plantation, and his 

[7] 



master's papers were put in his charge. 
But Dr. Welford was reduced to such 
straits by the work and presence of the 
Union army that he found it impossible 
to maintain his slaves, and Sam was 
thus thrown upon his own resources. 
Soon, however, he obtained employ- 
ment in the oflSce of Colonel Stephen 
Fletcher, United States Provost Mar- 
shal at Danville. Through the vaga- 
ries of war, Sam and Maria now found 
themselves, the one the servant of a 
Union master and the other the servant 
of a Southern mistress, in the same 
household. Colonel Fletcher had his 
office in the house of a Confederate 
colonel named Withers, who was him- 
self in the northern part of North 
Carolina, driven there by the Union 
army. But Mrs. Withers was allowed 
the privilege of remaining in her own 
home, and Maria was employed to care 
for her child. 

After the war, in May, 1865, Colonel 
Fletcher, who had conceived a great 
liking for his servant, brought Sam and 

[8] 



two of the daughters to his own home 
in Waterville. Sam at once found em- 
ployment with the Maine Central Rail- 
road. In the following October, Maria, 
with the third child, joined her hus- 
band. The circumstances leading to 
her arrival furnish a picturesque illus- 
tration of the peculiar sentiment of the 
time. It seems that the Maine State 
Sunday School Convention was to be 
held in Waterville, and, to add to the 
interest of the occasion, Sam, who was 
something of a novelty, inasmuch as 
very few negroes had found their way 
into the state, was asked to sing a solo. 
To get the maximum of effect, Sam was 
wrapped in an American flag and 
placed upon the platform. The en- 
thusiasm and emotion of the audience 
was so aroused by this episode that, 
after the solo, a contribution was taken 
to defray the expense of bringing Mrs. 
Osborne to Waterville. As the valid- 
ity of the marriage was questioned, Sam 
and Maria were *' re-united," as Sam 
was wont to put it, in the presence of 

[9] 



Professor and Mrs. Hamlin and other 
prominent citizens. Sam's thrift and 
filial loyalty are shown by the fact that 
within a year after his coming north 
he had saved enough money to bring 
his father to Waterville. For a year 
his father served as janitor of the col- 
lege, but upon his death in 1867 Sam 
was appointed to fill the vacancy. 

Placed in this new environment, 
Sam transferred to the college that 
loyalty which the negroes of ante- 
bellum days had felt for the master and 
the plantation. It was an affection 
and a devotion as instinctive as it was 
deep. From the first, Sam's strong 
qualities won him the confidence of 
both faculty and students, but as time 
went on, with its inevitable changes in 
the faculty of the college and in its 
fortunes, he came more and more to be 
regarded not only as a bright, reliable, 
hard-working servant, but as a man 
whose life was peculiarly inwrought 
with the destinies of the college. It 
was this Sam of later years that I 

[101 



knew, a man to whose unique and 
many-sided personality it is very diffi- 
cult for a writer to do justice. I can 
only hope to touch upon certain of its 
more picturesque aspects. 

Despite Sam's early ambition to 
become educated, he could neither read 
nor write. No — that statement is 
unjust and inaccurate. Sam could 
both read and write, and I herewith 
submit the evidence. Among his many 
duties was that of postman, and the 
outgoing mail, which he collected each 
morning from the students as they hur- 
ried to chapel, or gathered from the 
boxes in the afternoon, was mailed on 
the trains at the station opposite the 
campus. Sam had learned by pure 
observation the appearance of the 
names of most of the leading cities or 
towns, and could thus sort the mail 
which was going to Portland, Augusta, 
or beyond the borders of the state, 
from that which was going to Bangor 
and points to the east. The question- 
able addresses were submitted to some 

[11] 



student whom Sam knew especially 
well, or, if no such student were at 
hand, to the mail clerks themselves. 
One morning I was enjoying the luxury 
of a " cut " from chapel and was 
seated on the dormitory steps, musing 
on the vanity of human institutions, 
when Sam came by with his bag of 
mail. *' Ah, Mr. Dehfohd, very sorry 
to see you'se not attendin' chapel dis 
mornin', you needs it, Mr. Dehfohd, 
but so long as you isn't in chapel, I 
wondah if you would jes' kinely cast 
youeh eye ovah a few of dese addresses. 
I declah foh it, it do seem to me dat 
my young men writes wussah and wus- 
sah every yeah. Dey writes so much 
Latin and Greek, dat I reckon dey jes' 
nachully forgets how to write deah 
native tongue. I guess we'll have to 
put penmanship into de cooriculum of 
dis college. Why, I'se quite ashamed 
of my young men, I is." And he hur- 
ried away to the depot, with the 
troublesome letters in the right pockets 
of his bag, chuckling merrily to himself. 

[121 



Though it was of course generally 
known that Sam's knowledge of read- 
ing and writing was thus limited, he 
pretended to be able to read the news- 
papers and would often drop into the 
reading room in the basement of Old 
South of an evening and glance over 
the pages of the Boston Journal, — 
which paper he chose through pro- 
nounced political convictions, — ap- 
parently absorbed in its contents. The 
next morning he would animatedly 
discuss the issues of the day with a 
group of students gathered on the 
steps, having in the meantime heard 
the news read by his children at home. 
Such was the affection felt for Sam, 
that no one of us would have wounded 
his feelings by twitting him with this 
little foible, and, moreover, we were 
forced to respect his appreciative 
knowledge of the events of the day. 

Sam could also write, for his children 
had taught him to write his name, at 
least to write what passed for his name, 
and this scrawl was proudly signed to 

[13] 



college bills or written across the face 
of his photograph. 

But the most remarkable of Sam's 
intellectual achievements was his trans- 
lation of the more diflficult passages in 
the '' Funeral Oration of Pericles." 
This was assigned us by Professor 
Foster in the spring of our freshman 
year, not through any delusion on his 
part that we — and by " we " I mean 
the class at large, not the uncomfort- 
able genius who is to be found in every 
class to disturb the peace of mind and 
the contentment of the great majority — 
not through any delusion, I say, that 
we could handle it, but merely to let 
us see that the time was hardly ripe 
for us to drop the subject, though 
most of us took it as evidence that the 
time for the severance of this man- 
imposed companionship was fully ripe. 
Long before my freshman days, Sam, 
hearing the general complaint of this 
purgatorial plunge, had learned by 
heart, from some waggish tutor, — of 
blessed memory, — a literal translation 

[14] 



of several pages of the more difficult 
Greek. When May and Thucydides 
grappled for our souls — as angels and 
demons may be seen in some quaint 
canvas by a Fra Angelico tugging lustily 
by head and heel at some quivering, 
pendant sinner — Sam would begin to 
throw out hints of help that might be 
proffered: "I doan usually believe in 
helpin' you young genelmen, but I alius 
feels dat I ought to give my freshmen 
jes' a little lif when it comes to dat 
' Fuhnyal Oration of Pehicles.' " And 
then the passage would be read, with 
appropriate gesture and true Demos- 
thenic fervor, to a crowd of eager boys, 
armed with pencil and tablet. 

Sam had an unusually good memory, 
all the better probably because he was 
forced to rely upon it so largely. I 
have heard an ex-President observe 
that it was his custom to call Sam into 
his office and give him a list of errands 
to do, and that Sam would invariably 
attend to them in the order enumerated, 
without forgetting a detail. Sam's 

[15] 



memory was equally impeccable when 
put to the test of time. He never 
forgot the name of an alumnus, and he 
remembered even the trivial details of 
a man's college career. I once asked 
him about the record of a man who had 
attended college for a short time some 
fifteen years before my own day. With- 
out a moment's hesitation Sam told me 
where the man roomed, who were his 
friends, and then, on the pledge of 
secrecy, the prank that had caused his 
dismissal. 

Coupled with his memory was a very 
keen and minute power of observation, 
which nothing seemed to escape. One 
wintry evening as Sam was lighting the 
lamps which hung in the corridor op- 
posite my door, he heard some one 
descending the darkened staircase 
above. With a merry chuckle he 
shouted, " I hasn't heard dat step roun' 
here for a long time. Seems like ole 
days; nobody else roun' here ever come 
down stairs jes' like dat," and from the 
darkness emerged a fellow who had not 

fl6l 



been back to the college since his gradu- 
ation nine years before. 

Sam's quickness of wit and ready 
power of repartee were an unending 
source of amusement to both students 
and faculty. It was worth defeat to 
see Sam momentarily studying over 
some challenge of wit and then to see 
him double up and hug his stomach 
with glee, only to undouble as abruptly 
and throw his head far back and to one 
side, with roguish eyes a-roUing, as he 
discharged the retort. It was Sam's 
annual custom to burn over the campus, 
in order to give the fresh grass a start. 
One morning as Sam was thus engaged, 
a very fresh freshman sauntered along 
the walk, pipe in mouth, stood and 
watched Sam a moment, and then re- 
marked, *' Well, Sam, that's almost as 
black and fuzzy as your hair." With 
scarcely a moment's hesitation came 
the rejoinder, '* Dat's true, Johnnie; 
'spect it'll come up fresh in a few 
days, but it won't be half so green as 
you is." The joke was overheard by a 

[17] 



sophomore — and it was the making 
of Johnnie. 

One evening after a somewhat heated 
religious discussion, in which some 
arrant rascals had been putting Sam's 
faith to the test, one of them asked, 
''But, Sam, what are you going to do 
up in Heaven? " '' Go on takin' care 
of de Colby boys." " But suppose you 
don't get there .^ " '' Oh, — go right 
on takin' care of 'em jes' de same." 

Ex-President Pepper enjoyed telling 
the reply which Sam made to one of his 
sallies. Several years after Dr. Pepper 
had retired, he was back at Commence- 
ment, and, observing Sam bustling 
about, remarked, " Sam, you seem to 
be rushing around a good deal; I don't 
believe you're half so busy as you 
pretend to be." Sam was too busy to 
argue the point, but as he hurried on 
he shot back the retort: " Dat's all 
very true, Doctah Peppah, but I learned 
dat lesson from you, when you was 
President." 

Like most of his race, Sam magnified 

[18] 



his office, and this exalted conception 
of his official self was to him an unfail- 
ing source of satisfaction and inspira- 
tion. It cast the golden glow of poetry 
over the drudgery of daily life; it ir- 
radiated the commonplace with its 
own bright, enduring colors. It hov- 
ered between the sublime and the 
ridiculous, but though it sometimes 
actually entered into the realm of the 
sublime, it seldom was allowed to ap- 
pear really absurd. The fact was that 
Sam was extremely sensitive to other 
people's impressions, and he was not 
often betrayed into exposing the dear 
idol of his imagination to their ridicule. 
He knew deep in his heart that it 
would not stand the severe light of 
cold reason, and he revered it too much 
to expose it to a test too searching. 
But when the good name of the college 
was brought in question, when some act 
of meanness aroused his indignation, 
or when some momentous event in the 
life of the college invited men to dis- 
close the deeper feelings of the heart, 

[19] 



then Sam was transformed into his 
ideal self, and, clad in the shining gar- 
ment of his own majestic vision, thun- 
dered forth the crescendo volume of his 
eloquence. 

No one who had the good fortune to 
attend prayer meeting that particular 
Sunday evening will be likely to forget 
Sam's farewell remarks on the occasion 
of the leave-taking of one of his 
favorite presidents. It was a kind of 
glorification of the college and of its 
successive presidents, and a lamenta- 
tion for the transitoriness of all things 
temporal. Chapter after chapter the 
history of thirty years of the college 
was reviewed, each chapter culminat- 
ing in eloquent regret for the departure 
of a president. With head thrown far 
back and eyes half closed, Sam sur- 
rendered himself to the mood, and, 
breaking through the cooling restraint 
of three decades of New England 
prayer meetings in a college church, 
chanted his impassioned, cadential lay 
as his ancestors had chanted before 

120] 



him. In this changing panorama of 
college life, Sam figured as the one 
fixed quantity, and the cumulative re- 
frain resolved itself into the reflection 
that " President Champlin, he come 
and go, but Sam stay on; an' den 
President Robbins, he come and go, but 
Sam stay on; an' den President Pep- 
pah, he come and go, but Sam stay on; 
an' den President Small, he come and 
go, but Sam stay on; an' den President 
Whitman, he come and go, but Sam 
stay on; an' now President Butlah, 
he's gwine to go, but ole Samll still 
stay on! " Sam stood out in superb 
relief as the living center, the one stable 
factor, in the ever-changing vicissitudes 
of the college. He was the one rock of 
defense against which the waves of the 
passing years beat themselves in vain. 
It was perhaps amusing, but it was 
curiously pathetic, and, in its way, 
beautiful. It was the revelation of the 
controlling ideal of a good life, a 
glimpse into a sanctuary, and he 
would indeed have been unfeeling who 

[211 



could have looked into that sanctuary 
with contempt. 

There was no time, however, when 
Sam opened his heart more feelingly 
to his friends than on the occasion of 
his annual farewell address to the 
graduating class. Like all good col- 
lege customs, this sprang up as it were 
by accident. It was a time-honored 
custom at Colby, as at other New Eng- 
land colleges, to have the last chapel 
exercises of the seniors conducted by 
the class chaplain, with appropriate 
ceremony. Now it chanced that the 
class of 1896 was one to which Sam 
felt particularly close, and on the oc- 
casion of its last chapel exercise the 
old janitor was so much affected that, 
as soon as the exercises were concluded, 
he ran up to the class president, and 
begged to be allowed to meet the class 
alone for a few moments. Word was 
hastily passed around that Sam had 
something to say to us, and we reas- 
sembled in the chapel. Sam stepped 
to the platform and began: "I hope 

[22] 



you young genelmen and ladies won't 
tink dat youeh ole janitah doan know 
his place, but I jes' cain't beah to have 
you go 'til I has tole you how good you 
all's been to youeh ole Sam and how 
much youeh ole Sam loves you. I sat 
and watched de sun go down las' 
night, and I says to myself, ' Sam, dat's 
jes' de way you'se losin' yoh boys and 
girls,' an' do' when I got up dis mawnin' 
dere was anodeh nice, new, bright day, 
it wan de same day, and when you gets 
as ole as I is, you'll fine it a little 
hahdeh every time to say good-by, 
and you'll fine dat de new friens doan 
jes' make up for de ole ones." And 
then Sam launched into retrospect, 
recalled many instances of our four 
years' history, some that made us 
smile and some that made us look down 
to lose Sam's eye for a moment, and 
then told us how he expected us to be 
loyal alumni, and always to stand by 
the college, and finally exhorted us to 
be good men and women, remembering 
that character was what the college 

1231 



had tried to give us, and was the one 
thing worth while after all. It was the 
best talk that we had heard during our 
college days, and when it was over we 
gathered around Sam, as children might 
gather around a revered parent, and 
said what our feelings would allow us 
to say. 

So much was this " farewell address " 
discussed about the college that the 
class of the following year took the 
initiative and invited Sam to address 
them, and thus the custom became 
established. 

Among Sam's other attributes was 
the gift of divination. He was the 
primitive man, a part of nature's self, 
and he looked upon the truth un- 
blinded, undimmed by the veil of 
knowledge formalized. In this respect 
he was absolutely uncanny, a person 
to be discussed and analyzed in remote 
rooms or upon quiet walks. Sam never 
talked about these supernatural pow- 
ers, and so far as I know the Society 
for Psychical Research never had him 

[24] 



under inspection, but he had these 
powers, abnormally, unhumanly de- 
veloped — not only had them, but 
used them, nightly. It was not fair, 
it gave the college authorities an im- 
possible handicap, but facts are facts, 
and must be faced bravely, resignedly. 
Hope springs eternal in the human 
breast — especially when that breast 
is in college, and nights are dark and 
the pulse beats high — but at Colby it 
sprang in vain. Sam had but to cast 
one searching, secret-revealing glance 
at the luminaries of the college heaven, 
and there was nothing that would fain 
be hid that was not revealed, — revealed 
not merely in broad outline, but in 
tiniest detail, — threatening disorders 
forecast to the very quarter of an hour. 
Was molasses spread upon the fresh- 
man pews in chapel, in order that the 
children might not wriggle in their 
restive seats .^ It was all carefully re- 
moved before the first stirrings of the 
college day, and Sam was performing 
his routine duties in quietness and the 

[25] 



fear of the Lord, with only a sly glance 
from the tail of his eye when a sopho- 
more chanced to pass. Was the read- 
ing room half filled with fresh new hay 
at Commencement time, that my guest 
might take his ease while taking his 
news? My guest took his news the 
next morning under the customary 
conditions of Spartan severity. 

Only once did the vision fail Sam, 
and even then not for long. One morn- 
ing in the spring of '95, when the stu- 
dents assembled for chapel, they were 
surprised to see the President seated 
behind a little table, instead of behind 
the old pulpit that had done duty for 
so many college generations. Of course 
the news quickly spread that the pulpit 
had disappeared during the night. After 
the first excitement no one took the 
matter very seriously, for we all ex- 
pected that our vigilant Sam would 
quickly trace it to its hiding place and 
restore it to the time-honored station in 
the chapel. In this view Sam himself 
probably shared. But as days went 

[26] 



by and no real clue was found, the 
strain became too much for Sam, and 
he went to some of the boys who he 
thought might know the whereabouts 
of the relic, confessed that he was com- 
pletely baffled, and cried like a child, or 
shall I say cried like a man, indignant 
tears, tears of humiliation. It was too 
much for the boys, and though they 
made no confession, a handsome new 
pulpit and a new chair for the President 
shortly appeared on the rostrum. Sam 
was comforted and he forgave — but 
he did not forget. A year later, in the 
following spring, we were all surprised 
one morning to see the old pulpit once 
more in its accustomed place, with the 
new one beside it. It was found to 
have been deposited on the shore of the 
Kennebec above Augusta. Sam, who 
had suspected that it might have been 
thrown into the river, had taken the 
precaution to have the farmers along 
the river on the lookout, and thus had 
learned its whereabouts as soon as it 
was discovered. But never a boastful 

[27] 



word from Sam; the pulpit had been 
recovered — his duty had been done — 
and if he felt any personal elation he 
was canny enough to keep it to himself. 
Not only was Sam the detective 
force; he was also the judge, — judex 
verissimus, sanctissimus, et justissimus 
plurimarum rerum. O fortunate com- 
monwealth, in which so goodly a man 
became judge by a happy natural selec- 
tion, and into which the vexatious 
problem of the recall never intruded 
itself! Of course some cases were so 
grave that the judge felt it necessary 
to refer them to the Supreme Court, but 
all ordinary misdemeanors were not so 
reported. These inferior court cases 
were handled quietly and with tact, 
and the judge enjoyed the confidence 
of the entire community. The Fac- 
ulty, for their part, were glad to be 
relieved from the annoyance of petty 
discipline, and, for our part, we were 
glad to reduce to a minimum the 
chances for the miscarriage of justice. 
Sam's authority, to be sure, rested only 

[28] 



upon tolerance and public opinion, but 
it was a public opinion enlightened and 
crystalized. 

Sam was qualified for this office by 
his good sense, his resourcefulness, and 
his secretiveness. Sam's secretiveness ! 
Somewhere in his brain must have been 
whole alcoves of dust-covered secrets, 
but the walls were adamantine, the 
keeper alone held a key, — and he 
alone entered. I think he enjoyed wan- 
dering through these alcoves, dusting 
off an occasional treasure, and taking 
a bit of a look at it, but that is pure 
conjecture. 

If the college held the first place in 
Sam's affection, and the church the 
second, the Good Templars clearly held 
the third. For nearly forty years Sam 
was an enthusiastic worker in this 
temperance order. Occasionally he 
would be elected a delegate to some con- 
vention, and then the alumni would 
raise a fund to equip him and to pay 
his traveling expenses. These trips 
were epochs in Sam's life. At one time 

[291 



he was thus enabled to revisit the scenes 
of his boyhood. But the great trip was 
in 1902, when he was sent to Sweden 
to the International Convention. It 
was the proudest day of Sam's life 
when he bore the Stars and Stripes 
through the streets of Stockholm. On 
his return, every one was eager to hear 
of Sam's trip, and so he delivered a 
** lecture," heralded by posters and 
dodgers, by your leave, in the Baptist 
Church. It was a " capacity house," 
and Sam gave everybody his money's 
worth, both in subject-matter and in 
length of program. None of your par- 
simonious, forty-five minute lectures 
for Sam! Indeed, if the demands of 
the college had not necessitated its 
termination, it is doubtful if the lec- 
ture ever would have had a close. 
Though I could not hear the lecture, I 
was in Waterville the following sum- 
mer. I found Sam working under the 
willows along by the river, and we sat 
down on a log, hip to haunch, and had 
it out. Sam, it seems, was one of six 

[30] 



delegates, representing six different 
races, presented to the royal family. 
" Well, Sam," I asked, " did you have 
any conversation with them? " " Oh, 
yes, sah; I talked to de princess." 
" What did she say to you, Sam.^ " 
'' She say to me, ' Sam, how ole be 
you.? ' " " And you replied.? " " Oh, 
dat's for yoh to fine out, princess ; how 
ole be yoh? " And we both laughed 
until we cried about it, though for quite 
different reasons. 

Though Sam was too self-sustained to 
exact commendation or attention, he 
was nevertheless transported with hap- 
piness when praise was volunteered. 
Commencement, with its home-coming 
of the old boys, filled his cup of happi- 
ness to overflowing with this pleasant 
wine. I recall that at one of the 
Commencements in the late nineties, a 
speaker at the alumni dinner proposed 
a toast to Sam and placed upon the 
coat of the old negro, who was led in, 
limp with giggling expectancy, by a 
troop of the younger men, an enormous 

[311 



metal badge, and announced that the 
thirty-third degree was thereby con- 
ferred. Neither Sam nor any one else 
asked so impertinent a question as 
" the thirty -third degree of what? " 
That was a thing to be felt, not to be 
impaired by definition. There was 
only one thirty-third degree that Sam 
could take — just the thirty-third de- 
gree of Samhood. Needless to say, 
this badge became a cherished posses- 
sion and was worn on all state 
occasions. 

Sam's home was always a favorite 
resort with the students, for Maria, — 
" Mother Osborne," as the boys of 
later years called her, — shared in her 
husband's affection for the college and 
idolized the boys. She had learned the 
lessons of hospitality at the fountain 
head, and she did credit to her Southern 
training. Maria's shelves were laden 
with good things to the remotest corner 
of pantry and cellar. Maria was the 
very duchess of doughnuts and princess 
of pies, and we hungry boys were always 

[32] 



glad to pay homage. Thanksgiving 
and Christmas were particular occa- 
sions, when Sam and IV^ria threw out 
the net of hospitality and gathered in 
every homesick boy, and only released 
him after he had acknowledged Maria's 
absolute supremacy in every depart- 
ment of culinary achievement. 

It was indeed a household to visit. 
Sam and Maria had raised a large 
family of affectionate, interesting chil- 
dren, and it was a pleasant sight to see 
them before their cheerful fire of an 
evening, with their happy children 
grouped about them. Many an even- 
ing did we spend there, listening to 
Sam's stories of his boyhood, or to 
reminiscences of the college days of 
men now grown gray and famous. 

So essentially was Sam's life linked 
with the life of the college, so little was 
his buoyant spirit affected by the pass- 
ing years, so disarming was his opti- 
mism, that even when he was past 
seventy, it was easy to think that many 
years of service lay before him. 

[331 



Therefore the statement in the pro- 
visional Commencement announce- 
ments of 1903 that Sam was breaking 
came as a shock to the alumni. When 
Sam learned in the spring of that year 
that he had but a short time to live, his 
one great desire was to last until after 
Commencement, in order that he might 
see as many of his old friends as pos- 
sible. His strength of will doubtless 
had much to do with gratifying this 
desire, and he lingered until the first 
of July. His last days beautifully 
crowned his life. After the seniors' 
last chapel exercise, the gowned gradu- 
ates marched over to Sam's house and 
shook hands with the dying janitor. 
He was too weak for many words, but 
a characteristic smile of appreciation 
lit up the face of the old man as he 
shook each hand feebly and said, 
'* Good-by, boys," and " Good-by, 
girls." It was a very touching scene. 
After it was all over, the large-hearted 
man broke down in tears. 

As many of the alumni as possible 

[341 



came back to Commencement, and 
Sam was able to see most of them. A 
constant procession of alumni were 
going to and from Sam's house. If any 
question of the real love which the boys 
felt for him had ever existed in Sam's 
mind before that time, those Com- 
mencement days must have dispelled it. 
There were few unmoistened eyes when 
the President, in the course of the 
Baccalaureate sermon, said of the old 
janitor: *' Our college has witnessed 
for many years the faithful service of 
our head janitor, whom all have re- 
spected and loved; respected for his 
faithfulness and devotion to the inter- 
ests of the college; loved, because of 
his gentle, warm, and confiding nature, 
because he has cared for the sick, 
chidden the erring, and encouraged all 
by his simple, pure, and unaffected 
Christian life." 

At the bedside of the dying man were 
all of the members of his family, the 
President of the college, and the pastor 
of the Baptist church. Early in the 

[35] 



day he expressed some anxiety that his 
son might not reach home for a parting 
word, and, on his arrival a few hours 
before his father's death, Sam talked 
with him about caring for his mother. 
To the last moment Sam showed his 
usual thoughtfulness for the comfort of 
others, and urged the friends about him 
to take rest and refreshment. His last 
words were " Good night." 

One day when Sam was discussing a 
certain piece of work which needed to 
be done at the house, and told his wife 
that he must do such-and-such a thing 
at the college first, Maria, half play- 
fully and half impatiently, replied, " I 
suppose if you was ded, you'd hev to 
go to de college fuhst." It was another 
instance of the truth being spoken in 
jest, for the funeral exercises were ap- 
propriately held in the college chapel. 
The mass of floral tributes from friends 
far and near were a final expression of 
the love which all who had known him 
felt for Sam. None was more signifi- 
cant than the heart of red and white 

[36] 



roses given by the Maine Central Rail- 
road, so very personal had Sam seemed 
to a supposedly impersonal corpora- 
tion. Among the pall bearers was the 
President of the Board of Trustees of 
the college. 

It was fitting that Sam should be laid 
to rest just as the sun was setting at 
the end of a summer day. 

Dear old Sam, I doubt not that if 
any of the Colby boys are worthy of 
your care, you are looking after them 
to-night. 



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JUN 13 19>3 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



029 919 475 9 



